


20 Bucks and A Diet Coke

by grosss



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Belly Kink, Chubby Gerard Way, Feeding Kink, M/M, Stuffing, Summer of Like, Warped Tour 2005, look.....I don't make the rules I just write the stories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:47:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25004137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grosss/pseuds/grosss
Summary: The vest doesn't fucking fit him.
Relationships: Frank Iero/Gerard Way
Comments: 16
Kudos: 68





	20 Bucks and A Diet Coke

**Author's Note:**

> My mom says I'm a good writer so I'm choosing to use that talent to write niche weird porn for my chemical romance fans on the internet
> 
> Uh...this was not supposed to end up as intense as it did. Sorry. We're all thirsty for warped 05 Gerard. You, reader, are probably thirsty for warped 05 Gerard, even if you don't realize it. It had to be done.
> 
> I started this months ago and remembered it was in the works because of MyChemicalKink's upload. Enjoy
> 
> Find me at grosssontumlr dot tumblr dot com

The vest doesn't fucking fit him. 

Frank has to hand it to Gerard for many things, most of them creative decisions that boggle his mind, for his persistence, his art; but his clothing choices were lacking sometimes.

Maybe he has a soft spot for Gerard, like his heart made room for him and never went back to normal, and he's always too concerned, especially after the previous year. Always making sure he's sleeping and hydrated and calm and eating enough, because Frank likes him well-fed. 

Frank tells Gerard this, at the end of a long afternoon when they have a moment alone. He says it word for word, all up in Gerard's personal space, "That vest doesn't fucking fit you," and watches Gerard's expression go from indignant to confused to surprised as he quickly registers what Frank means, Frank with his hands rough on his hips, eyes raking up and down his body in a way that doesn't seem bad at all. Gerard only says, "Oh," and then, "Okay," relaxing against him as Frank rips aside the velcro and tugs at his sweat-slick jeans. 

They're in Nevada now, but the states and festivals are blurring together into heat and loneliness and arguments, but Frank is having the time of his fucking life. His body is constantly in pain, sure, and he's thrown up a total of five times so far, only two of which were from drinking too much, but he loves it nonetheless. The vest clings to Gerard in all the right places like there's too much of him, and oh yeah, Frank is having a good time. Gerard is all soft flesh and sweaty skin and Frank wants to touch more than he gets to, which isn't often enough for his liking. He pulls Frank close onstage sometimes, has kissed him once so far- once in front of the crowd, at least, and Frank revels in it, the moments of closeness amidst the chaos. Gerard rarely changes his pants all summer, opting for a pair of comically snug Tripp jeans that hug everything but his ankles and keep threatening to slip down his ass. He holds them up with a belt cinched much too tight, accentuating his waist and soft belly and it almost makes Frank angry, as if he's doing it on purpose. The problem is, he knows Gerard all too well, knows when he's fucking with him, knows when he's trying too hard to be sexy, and this isn't one of those times. Gerard is willfully, deliciously oblivious, and Frank hates it.

Sometimes Frank copes in ways that only make sense to him, to his immature and electric brain, smacking Gerard’s ass as he walks by without a shred of acknowledgement or eye contact- because that's just how they /are/, it wouldn't seem amiss to anyone. The summer of 2005 feels like a suffocating, sweaty sort of heaven. Frank is high when he isn't getting sick, everyone is touching and laughing and Gerard is sober and looking so, so fucking good. None of it seems out of the ordinary, and Frank feels safe and alive. Mikey is seen at a party with Gabe Saporta, /with/ him, disappears for hours at a time in the Fall Out Boy bus, and well, that's just fine as well, as long as he stays out of Frank's hair when he's got his hands all over Gerard. Sometimes Frank texts him on his Motorola, still thrilled that he can even /do/ that, holy shit, from across the field or from backstage or waiting in line for a lukewarm soda from a cooler, things like, "come here", "Im on the bus and no1 is here", because he can't for the life of him train his fingers to type words and apostrophes with those little buttons, and sometimes just "G," or "fuk you and ur ass" until Gerard cuts through the throngs of people and finds him on the bus, scowling with his hands down the front of his cargo shorts. 

Gerard reciprocates Frank's affections in his own way, sidling up behind him in a corner of an empty artist tent, arms around Frank's waist and head leaning comfortably against his shoulder blades, whining and bitching about the heat and how he wants to be left /alone/, and by alone he means with Frank and Frank only, until Frank slides his hand up his leg to grab at his barely concealed junk. There's a spot on the inside of his left leg where the fabric of those stupid fucking jeans is wearing thin, black denim soft and faded, and Frank strokes him there, thinking about the possibility of Gerard's thighs wearing holes in his jeans, and shudders. 

It's already been weeks of watching Gerard squeeze himself into that vest, and Frank feels like he needs to attend group therapy for how obsessed he is with him, with the nauseating tease of tight fabric pulled over his curves. He can't stand him, and uses it as an opportunity to give him a little smack every now and then. When Gerard feigns hurt and goes, "motherfucker, why," Frank just snorts and says "because", which usually shuts him up. 

There's a catering tent at every festival they play, artists only, but Brian still gives them buyout money for some asinine reason, tries to be nice, tells them they can get festival food if they want it. Gerard takes advantage of this, as does Frank on occasion, but Frank does his best not to fuck up his sensitive stomach. He finds Gerard in the catering tent, finally on his own and away from other people. He's got a burger next to him that looks like it definitely isn't from catering, a little paper cup of strawberry shortcake, a mountain of fries, a coke, and a plate of pasta that smells like mushrooms and actually looks halfway decent. The fan near the table behind them is blowing the same earthy smell in their direction. 

"You know there's perfectly good food here, right?" Frank sits down across from him, watching him as he eats. 

Gerard only shrugs. "Brian gave me twenty bucks."

"So you spent it on that?" Frank can't help but laugh at the half-eaten burger that looks more like a large brick. There's pools of unnaturally green and purple substances in his french fry carton. "This stuff doesn't cost anything and it doesn't taste like ass. You're crazy." 

Gerard only shrugs again, sucking at his Coke. He ignores him. "Dude," he says, shoving his french fry boat in Frank's direction. "They have purple ketchup." 

Frank chuckles, "No offense, but you need to slow down," more of a platonic jab than anything, but it comes out all breathy and weird. Gerard only shrugs, catching a droplet of strawberry syrup on his finger and sucking it off. "Why?" He asks around a mouthful of shortcake. "We don't have anywhere to be." 

Frank wants to scream, wants to say "because you're driving me insane," but he scoots a little closer to Gerard and says, "we said we'd go to that after party in a few hours, and if you keep eating like this, you're not going to be able to move." Frank tries taunting him, but his voice shakes. Gerard takes a sip of his diet Coke and lifts his sunglasses, squinting at him. "You'd be into that, huh?" He gives a phlegm-y laugh. "Freak." He turns back to his cake, seemingly content. "I don't really care what Mikey and Gabe and those guys get up to tonight," He says, discreetly rubbing at his gut with his free hand. "Like, the drinking part doesn't bother me anymore, I'd be fine, just-" He chugs at his Coke again. "I love those guys, but I don't need to be there." Gerard leans back with a small grunt, satisfied, closing his eyes behind his sunglasses. 

Frank sighs, mouth forming a tight little line, feigning annoyance to hide how his pulse is pounding in his ears. He feels woozy with lust, it really isn't his stomach problems this time. Frank wonders if it's normal. He grabs Gerard's left hand, not an uncommon move at all, and tugs him to a standing position, says, "Let's go." 

Gerard groans, wrinkling his nose behind oversized sunglasses. "Frank, gimme a minute, you can fuck with me later, I'm too full-" Frank shoots him a withering look, mostly for his own benefit, because he's about to commit a serious act of PDA inside of the catering tent, which really isn't his style. Gerard stands there in defeat, rubbing at his sweaty brow with his free hand. He yanks his jeans up, perpetually falling off of him even now, tries to adjust his tangle of clothes, but it only makes things worse, draws Frank's eyes downward, and yeah, oh man. The stiff material of the costume vest is riding up as he lifts his arms, doughy stomach looking a lot rounder and firmer than usual, spilling out over his low-rise jeans and under the bulletproof vest. Gerard scrubs a hand across his sunburned face. "Frank, seriously, I don't think I'd be that much fun right now, I'm so stuffed, I'd just-" 

"You don't have to do anything." Frank hooks an arm around his waist, slides his fingers into his belt loops and brushes his fingers over his engorged stomach. "Come on."  
He drags him over to an adjacent tent, one he knows is being used for their band and their band only. "Sit." he bites out, and Gerard does, groaning in relief and patting his exposed stomach. Frank sits next to him, half on top of him, straddling a thigh and immediately grabbing at his hips. "Want me to help you out, hon?" He slips a hand under the stretched fabric of his muscle tee, rubbing wide circles over the warm skin, grabbing at him. There's too much of him, too much for Frank's hands, and he hears a seam groan as Gerard shifts around on the couch. "You're lucky, you know," Frank takes his earlobe between his teeth, still grabbing at him. 

"/I'm/ lucky?" Gerard blinks up at him, wide hazel eyes smeared with traces of stage makeup. He gives a small hiccup, closing his eyes again. "Why?" he murmurs. 

"You're lucky I don't have anything else back here for you." Frank struggles to control the shake in his voice. 

Gerard hums in quiet agreement, shifts a little and adjusts the front of his jeans. "There's a liter of Coke in the van." He swallows, still searching Frank's face. "If you wanna." Frank doesn't say anything, head spinning, and Gerard explains. "Ray got it for tonight, he was bringing it for the rest of the guys, but." Gerard looks hopeful. "We can get em a new one." He clutches at Frank, rubbing circles into his smaller side. "I'm still kinda hungry." 

Frank untangles himself from his lap, says "don't move," which makes Gerard break out into a fit of laughter because yeah, he's not going anywhere any time soon, and jogs back to the bus faster than he does when he's running late for soundcheck. He grabs the bottle from the fridge and makes it back somehow, having willed his boner away for five minutes out in the crowds. 

Gerard thanks him as he hands it to him, face flushed, and takes a long drink. Frank slides in beside him again, wrestling open his jeans with some difficulty, hearing Gerard sigh in relief as the tight fabric is pulled away. The front of his boxers is damp and it definitely isn't sweat, and Frank grabs his hand again, shoves it inside, and says, "You do it." 

Frank tips the bottle up against Gerard's mouth once more, doesn't know if he can finish it, but doesn't really care either way. Gerard gets his dick out and starts fucking up into his own hand. Frank sets the bottle back down and Gerard gasps for air, cradling his belly in his free hand. "Come here," he nearly whines, knocking his head against Frank's as he moves his hand, grunting a little. 

"I'm right here," Frank grabs at him again, and repeats, "That vest doesn't fucking fit you, you know." He picks at the velcro, peeling it off of his body. "Way too fucking big, if you keep eating like this-" 

Gerard interrupts him. "Stop, Frank, shit," but it isn't a bad "stop", he's leaking all over his hand and frowning in concentration, stomach rising and falling with each shaky breath. 

Frank grins, and continues. "You keep eating like this, and you're not gonna be able to wear it anymore," Frank bites down on the flesh between his neck and shoulder. 

Gerard swallows thickly, tries to protest. "S' not that bad," He mutters, but his face is red and his his grip tightens around himself. 

"You keep stuffing your face like this, you're not gonna be able to get it on, and people will start to wonder," Frank nearly chokes on his own words, rubbing at Gerard's sun-warmed skin. "They're all gonna see you up there, trying to tell yourself that this thing still fits, and-" 

Gerard squeezes his eyes shut, swears again, and comes over his hand and the front of his jeans, fruitlessly wiping at himself with a wad of paper towels on the table nearby. 

Frank suddenly feels guilty, still hard as fuck in his cargo shorts, and kisses at the side of his face. "You alright?" 

Gerard blinks, giving him a shaky laugh. "Yeah. More than fine."


End file.
